{By Brittany Gibbons, The Barefoot Foodie}

Have you ever been driving somewhere, and, before you know it, you’re there and you have no idea how you got there?

I haven’t been present for a while.

My body was here, and every so often, familiar words would escape from my mouth, but for months, my mind was somewhere else, and my heart was off laying in a mud puddle somewhere while someone poked at it with sticks.

I’m a cutter.

Not that kind.

With my brand of cutting, there is no visible blood.  All the scars are internal.

I was never going to say anything.  I was just going to cut.  Bleed.  Heal.

But, I wasn’t really healing.  I wasn’t clotting.

I was gushing.  Heavily.  And, it was blocking me.

Everything just squatting on my frontal lobe.  Making my words not work.

(I have no idea what your frontal lobe does.  I’m not a professional doctor.)

I have so many things to tell you.  Funny things.  Weird things.  Awkward things.  Just.  Things.  But, for a while, I couldn’t.

Every time I tried to tell you a story, my heart was all, HEY.  DON’T YOU REMEMBER ME?  THIS GIANT ASSHOLEY WOUND?  MAKING YOU PUKEY AND SAD?  LOOK AT ME.  LOOK AT MEEEEE!

Then it got hard to breath, my lips got numb, and my hands stopped working right, and I cried.

At first, it was sad crying.

I was mourning.

Mourning the loss of someone I loved.

Someone that was walking around, still very much alive, his blood the same as mine.

I waited to clot.  I waited to heal.

It turned to rage.

I bottled it and bottled it.  Only pushing against the people closest to me, screaming, LOOK AT ME.  LOOK AT THIS HURT.  THIS GIANT BALL OF SEEPING ANGER.  TAKE IT FROM ME PLEASE, IT’S TOO HEAVY FOR JUST ME.  I CAN’T CARRY THIS ALONE ANYMORE.

I expected help.

But instead, the body count grew.

Until things started to look less like a paper cut and more like a massacre.

Nobody likes complicated.  Nobody likes messy.

I am often both those things.

I used to only use the word hate when it came to silly things.  Like cilantro.  Or The Next Karate Kid.  Or people who hum when they chew.

But, now I use it for different reasons.

Reasons that are less sad and hurty, and more empowering and self respectful.

I can’t stop people from saying things about me that are horrible and untrue.

But, I can stop giving their disgusting actions so much weight.

I can’t make the people I loved see the truth or the hurt.

But, I can stop feeling so alone.

Because I’m not.

The surviving pieces of my life are my treasures.  My family are my bones.  And, I happen to have the very best friends in the world.


Not friends.



Some near.  Some a bit farther.

But, what’s distance when it comes to wine, laughing and singing along to Glee, right?

You aren’t in my life right now.  And, I just have to be ok with that.

I’m clotting.

I can write again.

And, I have the funniest thing to tell you.

Photo credit

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Brittany is the author of The Barefoot Foodie.
Subscribe to her blog in a reader so you won’t miss her serious, funny, brilliant thoughts.
Connect with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Discovered by Story Editor, Robin Dance @ PENSIEVE :: @PensieveRobin

Comments Closed

17 Comments to “Clotting”

  1. Amo

    “I can’t stop people from saying things about me that are horrible and untrue.

    But, I can stop giving their disgusting actions so much weight.”


    I hate how I have to get completely fed up before I can take action…
    Amo recently posted..Not Lost in Translation

  2. Story Bleed Magazine says:


  3. Just Shireen

    “I have so many things to tell you. Funny things. Weird things. Awkward things. Just. Things. But, for a while, I couldn’t.” I know this feeling so, so well. I’m immersed in it right now. Thank you for posting this.
    Just Shireen recently posted..The One I Didn’t Want To Write

  4. Thank you for featuring this. I cried writing it. RT @StoryBleed: Clotting. Serious writing. By @barefootfoodie

  5. Tessa says:

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